"I was hoping somebody would ask me. Somebody like you, Terry."
"Consider yourself asked. Let's go."
They sat in a booth in a small restaurant on a side street near the Courier Building. Joyce's eyes were grave as she studied Bryan's face over the top of her menu.
"Anything in that last will and testament crack you made, Terry?" she asked at last. "I saw you come out of Sanders' office."
He shrugged, mobile lips twisting into a wry grin. "Nothing that serious. I just had my wrist slapped. Over the way I handled the Holzheimer story."
"There was quite a bit of talk about that up at the office. Sanders let you off easy. But Terry, you seem to have been hitting out at things a little too hard. What's the matter—a disappointed love life?"
"You know as much about my love life as I do."
"Really?" She looked down to finger a spoon, sudden pain and wistfulness in her averted face.
"I saw Dave at the County Hospital," he went on. "You remember Dave."